Winter Boots, A Story by Frank Melchior
Date: 2003
Something strange happened while I was looking in the mirror the other day. I saw this fellow who had reached the age where it is permissible to tell tales of how things were "back then." Whether it was the gray hair, the arthritic joints or simply the way his pants rode up when he sat down, the signs were there that said his time had come. Let me tell you about Christmas, for instance.
When I hear "White Christmas" on the radio, I know for certain it is winter again, but that is where my affinity for Bing Crosby ends. The first frost crinkling my nose does not evoke such saccharine memories as roasting chestnuts. Instead I smell once more the unforgettable tang of over-heated sweat as Dad's felt socks dry by the kitchen stove.
I can also still see in my mind as if it were yesterday those pairs of boots lined up, from largest to smallest, in front of the stove. Each winter, the only change was that a larger pair was added to the front of the line. The rest of us children would simply move up a pair.
As the fifth child, I knew early on that I would never own a new pair of boots. There was even an advantage to holding this position in the family, for I knew which my footwear would be for the coming winter and could prepare accordingly. For years, when my lot was poor and the next pair of boots too large, I could save old socks, cotton batting or anything else that had insulation value. I could also look at the next pair in line and dream about how warm my feet would be the following winter.
Boots worn by so many people begin to take on a character of their own. After three or four children, rather than the boot molding to the foot, the foot is forced to adapt to the boot. I know this from personal experience.
My oldest brother, Floyd, broke his left leg as a child and after walked with that foot turned slightly inward. Each of the next three children walked with the same inward-turning foot after inheriting his boots.
Young people today mock the concern we had with the weather in the "old days" as obsessive. What they don't realize is winters were much colder and the snow much deeper - back then. I remember as a child that no matter how much I grew year after year the snow would always come up to my chin. Still, their cynicism is understandable. The generation before mine is mostly responsible. Those old guys exaggerated so much that all stories about the weather have lost their credibility.
About the younger generation, I will say only that they seem more concerned about fashion than warmth. My opinion of fashion can best be explained in a story once told to me by an English chap. He said in every pack of foxhounds there is one hound that has no sense of smell whatsoever. This dog can never lead the pack. He will never smell, and probably never see, the fox. In fact, he is not sure there is a fox. All he can do is run at the back of the pack looking at the other dogs' behinds and barking madly.
I will stop typing now, as the arthritis in my hands is acting up again. Besides, I need to go to the mall. Usually I dislike shopping, but my winter boots are worn out, and there is something about the smell of new boots that is strangely satisfying. Yesterday I saw a pair in a specialty shop. They were stylish, yet warm. They were also, rather expensive, but when a fellow reaches my age he needs all the help he can get to keep warm - and looking good!